


Legacy of Knaves and Fools

by runningondreams



Series: Stumbling, Fumbling, Falling [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bonding, M/M, the Exalted Plains, vague mentions of other companions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan is having some trouble controlling his temper. Varric enlists Dorian to distract him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy of Knaves and Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Set between [Threnodies 5:1 in Translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599294) and [Heart's Drumming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5790946).
> 
> Title is a reference to the quote, "History is an account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools," by Ambrose Bierce

Dorian arrives in the Exalted Plains to find Blackwall limping on a wrenched knee, the Inquisitor scowling around as if the very landscape offends him, and Varric worrying at the trim on his jacket buttons. Solas, the Inquisitor's original reason for venturing into the war-torn countryside, is nowhere to be seen. It's hardly the welcome Dorian had been looking forward to when Josephine told him he was needed.

“Try to see if you can distract him,” Varric mutters, his gaze never quite leaving the Inquisitor's slouched form. “I need to have a word with the Seeker. This place is messing with his head.”

 _How very reassuring_ , Dorian opens his mouth to say, but Varric shakes his head with a grimace and turns away, presumably to give Cassandra a similarly glowing report.

Excellent. Starting conversations when Lavellan is already irritated. Just when he'd been hoping they were over all the grinding on sharp-cornered personalities.

He sighs and casts one more look at Blackwall in an admittedly desperate play for reprieve, but the man's settled onto the end of one of the supply wagons and looks like he's already in enough pain as it is. Nothing else for it then. Dorian Pavus to save the day. Again.

Lavellan is standing at the edge of the riverbank, arms crossed as he watches Cullen's men unload boards and tools and stone. There are men in the water too, doing … something related to bridge-building, presumably. The view could be significantly improved if a few of them would take off their shirts, but alas, wet cotton and leather appears to be the order of the day. Perhaps that is the source of Lavellan's mood. Unlikely, but in an age of dragons and ancient magisters and giant holes in the sky anything is possible.

As Dorian draws closer he can see more signs of stress—tense lines around Lavellan's eyes, grassy ground worn down under his feet from pacing, his hair has come mostly undone from its tie and his ears tight against his head.

He doesn't have enough information. The least Varric could've done was tell him what _not_ to mention. This is going to be blind steps in a dark room, with the icy pit of Lavellan's anger somewhere ahead, invisible and soundless.

Baby steps, Pavus. You can do this. He _likes_ you, at least a little bit.

“So. How's the construction coming?” he asks.

The glare Lavellan cuts at him is positively frigid. Well done indeed, Dorian. Top marks, as always.

“Did you know?” Lavellan starts, and oh, this is going to go so well, isn't it. “The man who ordered this bridge built dedicated it to all who fell in the Exalted March of the Dales, human and elven. A noble sentiment, yes? Silly to pretend that it's only ever _shemlin_ who die in war, isn't it? And the good Chantry folk were so offended that they forced him out of office on suspicion that he might have elven blood.” Lavellan's lips curl in what can only be called a snarl. “Because to be elven is to be lower than the lowest peasant, to be _profane_ and _wicked_ and without reason. Because it is a sin in the eyes of the Maker to wish to keep a piece of land that was promised to you by his own prophet, and it is a great deed to slaughter an entire people in their home and claim it as your own.” He spits out something venomous in elvhen, too fast for Dorain to quite catch the shape of it. He's willing to bet Elgar'nan is involved. Vengeance seems a good assumption. “I should leave them all to rot, to fester in this mess of their own making, but of course, then I would be the barbarian, and perhaps the new Divine and the new ruler of Orlais will decide they have been too _lenient_ on elves on the past.” Lavellan uncrosses his arms, his hand curled into tight fists and mana crackling over his shoulders. “How it must gall them, that once again the only person who can help them is a murderous elf from the wild hills. They've already done their best to keep the Hero of Fereldan's identity from the pages of history. What do you imagine they will do to me, given the slightest of chances?”

“An elf and a mage,” Dorian quips, slightly horrified but unable to stop himself. “They're probably crying into their cups at night over the unfairness of it all. How could their prophet _possibly_ be so cruel?”

For a moment he thinks Lavellan might actually lash out at him, a half-formed spell at his fingertips, but then the glowering mask cracks and he _smiles_ , even chuckles a little.

“An elven mage who's taken up with a Magister! The horror. Perhaps they will do us a favor and die of chewing on their own livers.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Dorian notes. “We can but live in hope.”

Lavellan looks to the bridge again, but his shoulders are looser, and he seems much less likely to call down lighting on unassuming plant life or unfortunately designed statues.

“I'm glad you're here,” he says after a moment, and something warm and delicate unfurls in Dorian's chest. “Someone's been raising the dead on the ramparts,” Lavellan continues. “I could use an expert's opinion on it.”

“And here I thought you might be missing my glorious presence,” Dorian says, pushing the feeling away. Clearly, he's overstepping himself. “Who else is going to make witty remarks about the Chantry's failings, or admire the handsome figure you cut as you shame Orlesian nobles into civility?”

Lavellan smiles again and his whole face crinkles with it, his eyes warm and his ears cocked in the way Dorian's starting to associate with some of their _better_ conversations.

“There's that, too,” he agrees, and as he turns back toward the camp he strokes his knuckles over the back of Dorian's hand. A single moment of tactile affection, and then he's stepping away. “Come on,” he says. “Cassandra's beginning to look impatient, and there's work to do yet.”

And Dorian follows him. It's becoming a habit he's not sure he wants to break.


End file.
